


Waiting Aboard a Ship at the Edge of the Universe

by LadyDorian



Category: 60 Parsecs!
Genre: First Love, Fluff and Angst, Humor, I love my space sons, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: Baby scratches at the stubble on his chin. "I guess—what I wanna believe is there's a rocketship or somethin' that takes people's souls across the galaxy when they die, like, to some other universe. An' when they get there, the person they love most is waitin' for them, so they never have to be alone."





	Waiting Aboard a Ship at the Edge of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> As with most things, I blame Markiplier for this. Also, it's what happens when I listen to too much Galileo Galilei. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. 
> 
> Soundtrack available here: [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/ladydorian/ten-minutes-into-soup-and-chill-and-he-gives-you-this-look)

_"The train that carries the children who couldn’t grow up_  
_Comes and goes, between here and the ideals that we never really managed to give up."_  
_—Galileo Galilei, "Boku kara Kimi e"_

 

"Hey. Hey, Cap? Can I show you somethin'?"

Emmet whips his head around from the damaged circuit panel by the airlock door, spaghetti-strand wires still dangling at his fingertips. "What? What happened? Is the crafting module malfunctioning? Did the computer finally pick up a transmission?"

"Nah, it's just…" As he speaks, Baby eyes the floor nervously, one overgrown hand threaded in his mess of ginger curls. "It's...nothin' important."

"Deedee caught Tom staring at her chest again, huh?" Sighing, he shoves a fistful of cables back home and prays to Edison that nothing explodes. "Look, I understand that some level of...frustration...is to be expected given our situation. But I really wish he'd cool it with the finger guns."

"It's not that, Cap," Baby replies with a sheepish laugh. "For once." Still, he keeps his gaze turned downward, and although Emmet waits as patiently as he can, he's beginning to suspect that Baby traveled the twenty feet or so over here with the sole purpose of wasting his time. Granted, there isn't much one can do while floating through uncharted space but devise increasingly elaborate ways to waste time; in the end Emmet figures he can cut him some slack.

"So...Baby," he drawls, dusting off his gloves. "What was it you wanted to show me?"

"Oh!" Baby's eyes shoot up like fireworks, sparkling with excitement. He reaches into his suit collar and extracts a small toy, proudly presenting it for Emmet to see. "This is my Soviet Socker action figure! Ain't he the best?"

"Oh...OK then…" An awkward silence passes over them before Emmet realizes that Baby intends for him to take the figure. Cupping his palms, he allows Baby to place it in his hands, careful not to drop it as he turns it over for further inspection. From the sudden glow that had lit up Baby's eyes, it's obvious this  little piece of plastic means a great deal to him, even with its faded paint and pointed nub of a finger, the American flag cape on its back gnawed to a red, white and blue pulp between worrisome teeth. Grossness aside, it doesn't look nearly as bad as it could have after a harried takeoff and several hundred bumps along the way. Baby must have taken the utmost care to keep it safe, and as Emmet continues to examine it, he feels a creeping nostalgia, memories of things he himself had held dear as a child, though they were all microscopes and astrophysics texts, stuff that none of the other middle-schoolers had been willing to appreciate. Least of all those who were the spitting image of his new crewmate. "This is...it's nice, Baby."

"Ain't he? He's my favorite thing in the world!" Baby beams, a boyish grin spreading from ear to ear. "I had 'im since I was a kid."

The pea-sized kernel of resentment that lingers in Emmet's brain wants to ask Baby how long it's been since he was the formal definition of a "kid." Or if the Astrocitizen Organization had erroneously listed a "2" in front of the "8" in his official file. But he bites his tongue and passes the figure back to him, looking on with a shameful curiosity as Baby lovingly strokes its plastic hair before returning it to his suit. The lights overhead burn like the sun, and even if Baby' skin hadn't been on the fairer side, Emmet would have no problem picking up the blush on his cheeks. "What's yer favorite thing, Cap?"

"Well…" Emmet doesn't strain himself settling on an answer. "We have a roll of duct tape in the cabin. I guess you could say that's my favorite thing at the moment." It's a practical answer, though not nearly as colorful as Baby may have wanted. Still, in a battle between their two Show-and-Tell contributions, Emmet is certain the tape would win in a landslide. Unless Baby planned to use his toy to seal the leak in the O2 system.

"Yeah," Baby chuckles. "I guess that's not a bad thing to like."

"So...was that everyth—"

"Y'know, Cap, I never shown my Soviet Socker to anyone before. It—" He swipes at the corner of one eye with his knuckles. "It really means a lot to me."

Emmet had read the Astrocitizen handbook from front to back more than four times. He knew how to make basic repairs, execute morally-gray decisions, and was well-versed in the proper protocol for dealing with mentally unstable crewmates; if there had been any guidance on empathy, he certainly would have seen it. Maybe his edition had been out-of-date.

Shrugging off his reservations, Emmet flashes Baby what he hopes is a comforting smile. And then, for reasons he can't comprehend, he reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Baby. You know I'm always here if you want to talk." It's the same old line he would give his students at the start of the semester, a half-hearted attempt to connect with "kids these days" that never resulted in anything more than a blank stare and a "Will this be on the test, Mr. Ellis?"

But Baby isn't just another student hoping to skate his way through freshman chemistry. Well, Emmet thinks he might have been once, though he doubts he could have told a test tube from a hole in the ground, let alone grasp the concept of professionalism or personal space. And though he should have expected it, he barely has the chance to flinch before Baby throws his massive arms open and hugs him so hard, his feet lift off the ground.

"Thanks, Cap. I won't forget this."

"Umm...Sure thing." He squirms uncomfortably, but Baby continues to hold tight, their odd embrace lasting long enough for Emmet to come to terms with the fact that he'll most likely die here, in the grip of a strange man who apparently still liked to play with dolls. Funny how the application had left that part out.

"Heyyyy, Caaaaptain!" Tom's crude melody bursts through the shuttle, accompanied by a percussion of cutlery. "The Ambassador of Soup requires more rations!"

"I...should get that," Emmet wheezes, pleased to be able to fill his lungs again once Baby sets him down. Hell, he's so grateful for Tom's distraction, he even contemplates giving the "Ambassador of Soup" an extra portion.

He runs a hand down the front of his suit as he heads back to the captain's chair, trying to brush away the warmth that Baby had left behind.

*****

"I'm sorry, you want me to _what?"_

"Be my barbell!" Baby says with that same grin Emmet had glimpsed more often than the screen of their navigation system. "I wanna press you."

Immediately, Emmet face heats up. _"Wait_ — _What?"_

"It's just that...Us bein' lost out here an' all...I been feelin' down lately. And exercisin' always perks me up."

 _"Oh._ Oh." Well, that's a relief.

"Besides," he goes on, "you're the perfect fit—tall, slim an' stiff as a pole!"

OK, Emmet supposes he can overlook that last comment. Reluctantly, he scans the interior of the cabin. "Well...there might be room in the very back for some stretches...but not much else."

"I can use the table here. I'll be real careful not to break any of the equipment. I swear!"

"I mean...but still…"

 _"Pleeease,_ Cap!" He whines, puffing out his bottom lip and batting his lashes in a persuasive display Emmet assumes he must have picked up from Tom, given the fact that he only seems to be blinking the one eye.

"Yeah, Captain!" Deedee chimes in. "I wanna see this."

As if on cue, all three of them begin chanting _"Press! Press! Press!"_ so loudly, Emmet would have given his right arm just to make them shut up. Perhaps Baby could use it as a free weight.

"Alright, alright. I'll be your...barbell." Not like he has much say in the matter; he can't exactly threaten to turn the ship around and go back to the station. Besides, he's much more useful with all his limbs intact. "How are we supposed to do this?"

With a dramatic sweep of his arm, Tom knocks the mess of empty soup cans from the table. "It's all yours, big boy," he says, finger-guns blazing at Baby.

If Emmet didn't know any better, he'd swear the atoms in his hands were attempting to initiate nuclear fission. His head is a bucket of fog, feet shuffling at the speed of lead blocks as he makes his way over to the table where Baby lies on his back in wait. He beckons Emmet closer with an eager wave.

Emmet can feel his heart pulse through his throat. "So...how does this work?"

"Here—" Elbows bent, Baby turns his palms upwards. "Just kinda lay across my hands. I'll catch ya if you start to fall. An' I promise I won't drop you. So ya don't have to worry 'bout that."

"You...promise?" Emmet trembles.

Despite its confidence, Baby's grin does little to convince him. "Promise, Cap."

"Well...OK...But I have 20/100 vision, so if this pair of glasses breaks, Tom is going to have to steer the shuttle."

Tom winks and shoots his finger guns at him.

Taking that as his good-luck charm, Emmet sets his hand on the table and cautiously begins to lower himself into Baby's open paws. One slides into the gap between his shoulder blades, the other curls tightly around his belt; a few careful readjustments later and Baby is able to coax him into a more comfortable position, as ready as Emmet assumes he'll ever be.

He crosses his arms over his chest, clutches his shoulders. "S-so…when do we staaaaaaa—"

 _Start_ is the word Emmet had been looking for, but words quickly fall into uselessness once one has become a barbell. Heaved into the air, lowered back down, repeatedly, over and over. All Emmet can do is squeal and whine and gurgle sounds so foreign to his ears that he thinks they may have made alien contact. Either that or he'd discovered the long-lost language of gym equipment.

"Good, good!" Baby huffs as the crew cheers him on, gleefully counting each press.

_"Eight! Nine! Ten!"_

Up and down. Rising and falling.

_"Twenty-two! Twenty-three!"_

Ascending. Descending. The ceiling growing closer, receding.

_"Thirty-nine! Forty!"_

Baby's fingers tightening their grip so he won't fall. Pinching the skin beneath his suit.

_"Forty-nine! Fifty!"_

By the time Baby lowers him to his chest—somewhere around sixty-two—Emmet is shaking all over, limbs like jelly, ready to drip from the edge of the table. He lies there for a minute, drowning in questions— _Who put this steam on my glasses? Whose heart is beating so fast? Whose lungs are about to burst?_ —until his body congeals to a solid mass again and he's able to push himself to his feet.

"Cap?" He hears Baby ask. "You OK?"

"Y-yeah," Emmet replies to the swirling blob of color in front of him. "'m fffine…"

"You sure? Ya look a little fer—frizz—like a cat in a washin' machine."

"The hell does that mean?" Tom says.

"I think what Baby is trying to say is they don't like water," Deedee explains. "Not that he, y'know, actually put a cat in a washing machine."

 _"Suuuure._ Next you'll be telling me dogs don't like bones."

"What? Tom, how do you not know that cats don't like water? You said you used to work at an animal sanctuary."

"No, no—It was a _halfway house_ and I was a _feline psychotherapist_."

They go on like that for minutes, maybe hours— _days_ —arguing about semantics and whether Tom actually did cure that Manx of her postpartum depression. Time is irrelevant to Emmet, like the flash of the computer monitor, or the glint of light off a can of soup, the voice that echoes with each pulse of blood through his veins.

_"Good, good."_

When his mind finally clears, and the clouds fade from his vision, the first thing Emmet sees is Baby's troubled face. "Say somethin', Cap. I'm beggin' ya."

" _Mmmm..._ are barbellssss ah-allowed to talk?" He mumbles.

Laughing, Baby nods. "Ya did great, Cap. Thanks for the workout."

"Fffeeling betterrrr?"

"Much better."  

"Good." Emmet thinks he might be smiling then, though his brain can't quite connect with what his lips are doing. "I'm glad." It's as much a statement as it is a question for himself, but before Emmet has time to ponder the answer, Baby steps forward and slips an arm around his waist.

"C'mon, Cap. Let's get you off yer feet."

"Y-Yeah," Emmet says, and drapes his arm over Baby's shoulders. "Less go home." Baby's hands feel warm and soothing against his body. Strong, protective, all those other things Emmet hadn't noticed while he was being hoisted into the air like a sack of meat.

With his weight resting on those capable shoulders, Emmet shut his eyes and buries his nose in Baby's hair, the sweet musk of sweat tickling his nostrils as he inhales.

"You smell good…" he murmurs. "Good, good…"

Baby laughs and squeezes him tighter, and now Emmet is certain he can feel a smile creeping across his face.

*****

"Cap, do you believe in soulmates?"

"Huh?" Emmet glances up from his soup with a perplexing frown, the spoon frozen halfway to his lips. "You mean the concept that two people are destined for each other?"

Under the amber glow of the auxiliary lights, Baby's eyes dance like flames, back and forth between Emmet and his own can of rations. "Y-Yeah, like you said. Like their souls were meant to be together." He holds Emmet's gaze as he asks again, "D'you think that's somethin' that could happen?"

"Well…" Emmet ponders, "from a purely scientific standpoint, there is no definitive proof that souls exist in the first place. Secondly—"

"But…" Baby interrupts him, in a voice too small for his hulking frame, "...what happens after we die then?"

"Nothing." He replies, and proceeds to stir his soup again, more interested in feeding himself than he is in where this conversation is heading. "The brain ceases to function. And the body eventually decomposes. That's it."

"Jeez, Cap," Deedee says, "we already lost Earth to nuclear holocaust. We don't need another A-Bomb in this joint." Reaching across the table, she gives Baby's knee a delicate pat. "You can believe whatever you want to, Baby. As long as it makes you happy."

Well, there goes Emmet's appetite. He can't even look at the thick slurry of preservatives and tomato paste without picturing the bleeding hole he'd shot into Baby's heart. "So...what _do_ you think about it?" He asks, hoping to clear his conscience.

Baby scratches at the stubble on his chin. "I guess—what I wanna believe is there's a rocketship or somethin' that takes people's souls across the galaxy when they die, like, to some other universe. An' when they get there, the person they love most is waitin' for them, so they never have to be alone."

 _"Pfft,_ soulmates," comes Tom's always delightful response. "There's only one kind of mate I'm interested in, if you catch my drift. Ah—there we go!" Grinning, he holds up the can lid he'd been tinkering with throughout dinner, its center taped to a dirty patch of cloth that he eagerly pins to his left breast. "A fitting medal for the Ambassador of Soup, wouldn't you agree?

"You look like an ass," Deedee shoots back, birthing the start of another rambling argument, this time about Tom's genealogy and how commoners used to "get the chop back in my day." It's nothing Emmet hasn't heard before, so he tunes it out and instead turns his attention back to Baby.

"You know...what you said is actually kind of sweet, Baby." He hesitates, then asks, "What do you think your soulmate would be like?"

Baby only smiles at him, and in the pit of his stomach, Emmet feels the soup he'd eaten start to pitch to and fro, like a ship teetering on the edge of something bigger than he can grasp.

*****

"Will you quit blubbering over there!"

Roused from another fitful sleep by Tom's pleasant shout, a groggy Emmet scrambles to right himself in his captain's chair. "H-Huh? Whatsit—What's happened now?"

"It's Baby," groans Deedee, head bowed over the empty mug in her hands as if peering into the casket of a dearly departed, caffeinated friend. "He's been crying in the corner for a while. We asked but he won't tell us what's the matter. He won't even look at us."

"You're his _souuuuulmate,"_ Tom mocks, the poster child of contempt, "so quit farting around and go do something about it."

Emmet hasn't the foggiest idea where to begin with that statement. What he _does_ have is a stiff neck, an aching back, pins and needles in both legs, and absolutely no desire to deal with Tom's sass today. Yawning, he casts his gaze to the weeping ball of green and orange huddled at the rear of the cabin. "Hey...you alright, Baby?"

Baby answers in a morse code of hiccups and sniffles, broad shoulders trembling in a way that makes Emmet want to reach out and smooth his palms over them until they stop. He lets that thought simmer in the back of his mind as he crosses the floor and crouches beside him. "What's wrong? You can tell me."

Tears trickle down Baby's face like water on glass, but he says nothing, not even when Emmet edges closer and gently runs his fingers along his arm.

"Please, Baby," he pleads. "Let me help."

Baby makes a small noise, then slowly turns towards Emmet. "H-H-He broke." There in his hands lies his cherished Soviet Socker, head snapped clean off its body. "I-I just took 'im out for a minute, b-but then I fell asleep and—and—"

"Don't cry." Emmet squeezes his quivering shoulder. "We can fix him." Ignoring the ache in his muscles, he stands and stumbles over to the shelf, returning to Baby's side with the ever-useful roll of duct tape. "A little of this should do the trick. If that's alright with you."

The pale blue hidden in Baby's red-rimmed eyes seems to flicker wistfully. "O-OK."

With his blessing, Emmet scoops up the broken toy and settles back against the wall. He gestures for Baby to join him, and together they sit, Baby hovering over his shoulder as he watches Emmet's nimble fingers work their magic. In a few minutes, the Soviet Socker is as good as he could possibly be, thick collar of tape notwithstanding.

"Here—" Emmet safely deposits it in Baby's hands, smiling as he adds, "Just think of it as a battle scar."

"H-He's—" His eyes soften at the corners, lashes still damp, though the rivers on his cheeks have since dried up. "He's _perfect_." He sniffles, wipes his nose off on the back of his glove. "Thanks, Cap. I promise I'll take better care of him."

"Hey, whatever happens, I've got your back, Baby." His job done, Emmet makes to head back to his chair, when out of nowhere he hears Baby whisper, "He's the only friend I had as a kid."

"What?" He spins around again. "Baby, you can't really mean that."

Baby shakes his head. "I used to cry a lot when I was little. Still do, I guess. I think Mama only gave him to me because she thought it'd shut me up. Musta worked because she never got me anythin' else."

The idea that the two of them could have been alike had never come as an option to Emmet. Those few times theirs paths had crossed on the space station, he'd only looked at Baby as muscle—no different from all the other jocks he'd known. He hadn't seen the loneliness, the hurt and fear, the parts of Baby that were present in himself. Suddenly, he's struck with the urge to comfort him, to apologize however he can, but his nervous fingers refuse to do more than graze the elbow of his suit. "I...I don't think I've heard you talk about your parents before."

"They made me do bad things. Ever since I was a boy."

Emmet's frown deepens. "Like what?"

"Larceny. Arson. Armed robbery." He rattles them off like items on a shopping list.

"Oh." So that's what Baby's file had meant when it listed him as "a candidate for rehabilitation." "Well—"

"It's not like I wanted to do all that stuff," Baby protests. "But it made my parents happy, so I guess I thought it made me happy too. The first time Papa ever hugged me was when I was six, after I crawled up a laundry chute so I could open a locked door for 'em. Then, after I got bigger an' stronger, they started to take me on all their jobs. Said if I just roughed some folks up a bit, none of the bad people would mess with us." He laughs, short and anxious. "The more I think about it, the more I figure they were the bad ones."

In his younger years, Emmet wouldn't have dreamed about striking back against a bully. But after listening to Baby's story, he thinks that if he'd had the misfortune of running into Mama and Papa Bronco before all of humanity was vaporized, he might have given his noodly arms a good workout. "It wasn't your fault that your parents took advantage of you. Besides, it's not like you killed anyone."

The silence that follows is more than a bit alarming, though Emmet forces himself not to overanalyze it. "It doesn't matter, anyway—what you were back then. This is who you are now. And the Baby I know is a good person."

Baby bows his head and stares at the toy in his lap. "Y'know, Cap, whenever I did somethin' bad, I used to pretend I was the Soviet Socker, an' the people I hurt were commie scum. I used to dream I was savin' the world, even after I grew up." Thick tears begin to spill from his eyes again. "I—I shoulda gotten rid of him, but...but I _couldn't._ And then...I was so clumsy..."

"It's OK, Baby. Just…" Emmet's heart races faster, one beat for all the times he wasn't there to protect him. "Just let it out."

"I was clumsy," he chokes. "I let 'im fall out of my pocket. We were smack in the middle of a job, but—but I had to go back for him. I couldn't just leave him there. People saw me. It was all over the news, and Mama and Papa were crazy mad. They turned me in, said they never seen me before. That I was lyin' about bein' their son. They did it because I was a liba—a lie—liability."

"What? No, you are _not_ a liability."

"That's what they said before they did it. That's—that's all I ever am."

"Baby—Baby, look at me." When Baby doesn't respond, Emmet reaches up and does it for him. "Why would I ever think that? Why would anyone think that?"

"B-But—"

"They were wrong. You're important to us. To _me."_ His fingers tremble against Baby's jaw and before he has the chance to question himself, Emmet sweeps them across his cheek and captures another escaping tear, wiping it out of existence.

"Cap, I—" Baby's flushed skin shimmers under the dull rubber, its glow matched only by the warmth of his smile. "Thanks, Cap," he says. "For ev'rythin'."

"Sure, Baby. You don't need to thank me." Too tired to be embarrassed, Emmet slowly lowers his hand and rests his head on Baby's shoulder, finding it infinitely more comfortable than the lumpy cushioning inside his chair. Eyes slipping shut, he breathes a contented sigh. "So…What do you miss most about Earth?"

"I guess...pizza, maybe?"

"Pizza? Really?" Emmet chuckles. "Was it that good?"

"Well, whenever I—I mean...it always cheered me up when I was feelin' down." Already, Baby's voice sounds much lighter. Happy almost. "Kinda like workin' out, I guess. Only it gives you a diff'rent sorta warm an' fuzzy feelin'."

"Not a fan of soup, then?"

"Nah, not really. I never liked tomatoes unless they were on a pie. But I'll eat 'em if it'll keep me from starvin' to death."

They share a laugh at that, and Emmet wiggles closer. "Believe it or not, I used to be a pretty good cook back home. I bet I could make you a soup that you'd actually want to eat."

"If you made it, Cap, I'd eat it for sure." He pauses, and for a moment all Emmet can hear is the gentle pulse of his heart. "Was it hard?"

"Hmm?"

"Learnin' to cook, I mean. Did your ma teach you?"

"I taught myself. It's just science 's all. Combine variables...get a desired result." He yawns into Baby's neck. "Not hard, really."

"That what you miss most about Earth? Bein' able to cook?"

"No, I—I think right now what I miss most is my bed. Falling asleep under the covers. Waking up to the sound of rain on the windows. Things like that."

"Were you by yourself or…" Baby hesitates. "Was there someone else?"

"No, just me. Guess I never saw the point of having a relationship. Guess I never really thought about it before."

The last thing Emmet remembers is Baby asking about soup recipes, and him mumbling some response like how gourds taste better when you sing to them before throwing them in the pot. Then, he's rolling around in his own bed again, covers pulled up to his neck, pillow soft and plush beneath his head. But when he opens his eyes, everything is different. The towering bookcases are gone, the peeling wallpaper stripped away, the potted plants on the windowsill glowing an otherworldly hue against the backdrop of a purple sky. And when he turns around, Baby is there beside him, flashing that same shy smile as he asks, "Hope I wasn't snorin' again."

He was— _is_ —snoring when Emmet wakes in the real world, but Emmet finds it doesn't bother him at all. Neither does the arm around his waist, or the hand resting atop his thigh, Baby's large palm cradling his glasses as though they were the most precious element in the cosmos.

*****

"C'mon, Captain, it's just a little prick! Well, more like a million little pricks. But don't worry, you'll get used to it after a while." Brandishing a wild grin, Tom waves his makeshift tattoo gun at Emmet's chest, the unholy abomination little more than a sharpened spoon dipped in soup and jury-rigged to the tape dispenser. Frightening, if Emmet had a fear of sticky things.

"Cap! Lemme take care of 'im!" At the opposite end of the table, Baby steps forward and cracks his knuckles in demonstration, leering at Tom like he intends to tear his throat out with his teeth.

"It's alright, Baby. I got this," Emmet sternly replies, one hand held up in hopes it will be enough to quell a potential bloodbath. He doubts the crafting module has the ability to construct a mop, nor does he need a reason to find out. "Just— _sit."_

Shockingly, Baby lowers his fists and slinks back to his chair, perching himself on the very edge, a spring ready to burst from its housing. Not exactly reassuring, but Emmet will take what he can get. He pivots to Tom. "I'm going to need you to put the gun down and go back to your seat. You've been acting a bit…" _Don't say crazy. Don't say crazy._ "...alarming lately."

Tom sneers in response, "What's the matter, Cap? Back when I was an Olympic bobsledder, me and the team used to get matching tattoos all the time. One for every gold medal!"

 _And if Deedee weren't out scavenging the planet for resources right now, she'd argue that's why you're as bare as a baby's ass._ But Emmet can't say that. He needs to keep it diplomatic; he is the captain after all. "Tom, you're out of line."

"Oh, _I'm_ out of line? For wanting to take our relationship to the next level?"

"Oh my g—" Physically unable to claw his brain out, Emmet digs his fingers into his throbbing left temple and wills himself to stay calm. _Relationship?_ He hadn't even thought they were friends, outside of that one time Tom had elbowed him in the ribs after telling a particularly lewd joke. He takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't get a tattoo with you."

"Wh-Why not? You got a religious objection or something?"

"Religion is a social construct designed to—whatever, that's not the point. It's just...it wouldn't be fair."

"Wouldn't be—" Tom growls through his teeth. "In what way?"

Emmet shoots a timid glance at Baby, still primed for attack. "I mean…It wouldn't be fair to the person I'm presently involved with."

"I—b-b-but—" Grabbing the gun with both hands, Tom attempts to rapid-fire a spray of tomato at Emmet but only succeeds in creating a lovely work of abstract art all over the floor.

"Yeah, that's not how it works, Tom."

Forced to deal with both the pain of rejection _and_ the cold reality that his gun lacks a trigger, Tom crumbles to his knees in a fit of sobbing, leaving Emmet to contemplate whether it would be best to comfort his crewmate or stick his own head in the crafting module. The latter, he assumes, would be less painful.

With a sigh, he turns away from the debacle in front of him, and is instantly greeted by Baby's bashful smile, cheeks shining pink above a field of orange fuzz. "Thanks, Cap."

Emmet smiles back. "Always."

*****

"You can't go out there, Baby," he hisses angrily—desperately—shuffling forward as though his towering glare might be a source of intimidation, despite Baby being only an inch or three shorter, and full of more muscle than Emmet had known could exist in the human body. "As your Captain, I'm ordering you to stay put."

"But I _have_ to, Cap." Baby spreads his arms wide, possibly in a show of how immensely screwed they are. "We're down to two cans of rations, an' we don't have enough supplies to make more."

Lowering his voice, Emmet peers out from between the curtain of wires that isolates this corner of the shuttle from the rest. "Fine. I'll send Deedee then. She's limber; she can handle it."

"Deedee just got back from an expedition," he argues. "She's starvin' an' exhausted. You can't keep pushin' her like this."

"Then Tom can go. He doesn't do jack shit around here except complain about how much soup he thinks he deserves."

"But you know Tom has been...well, he's been gettin' weirder and weirder."

 _"Don't_ argue with me, Baby," Emmet barks. "You're not going. I need you here."

The air turns tranquil for a moment: Motors humming, circuits buzzing, their breaths rising and falling like waves. Then, Baby speaks again, and all Emmet can hear is the sound of the world crashing around him. "For what?"

If tears were stars, Emmet's eyes could have been designated a galaxy. "Because…" He blinks, but they've already started to streak down his face. "Just because."

The soft touch of fingers on his cheek only seems to make them fall faster. "I'm sorry, Cap. But you know I have to."

Emmet shies away and nods in resignation.

"Do you think…" Baby starts, reaching into his suit collar, "...do you think you could keep him safe while I'm gone?"

"Oh—no...no, Baby...I can't—" He pushes Baby's hands away but Baby takes him by the wrist and presses the Soviet Socker to his palm, gently closing his fingers around it.

"It's OK, Cap. You jus' need to take care of him until I get back."

Only it's not OK, no matter how badly Emmet wants it to be. No matter how hard he wants to smash the toy to bits and pound his fists against Baby's chest and shout that Baby can't leave him like this. Not with that smile on his face. Not after he'd convinced him they could have been soulmates. But what else can he do about it?

He looks at the figure one last time before tucking it away, his gaze turning to Baby's pure, hopeful eyes. "Then, I want to give you something, too."

Faster than his neurons can fire off a warning, he clasps Baby's cheeks in his hands and kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy and inexperienced. Because Emmet has never done this before, but he can't stop himself from wanting to devour Baby's lips, to hold the taste of him on his tongue, to feel as he'd done that day Baby first threw his arms around him, when his body seemed to leave gravity behind. Only now he's lightyears past that, spinning in orbit somewhere with Baby's hands on his back, and his beard chafing his skin, their bodies held so close that it would be folly to try to separate them, like splitting the planet's hemispheres with a hammer and chisel.

That's why it hurts so much when his feet hit the ground again; it's the reason his chest aches and fresh salt stings his face, and his clammy fingers clutch at Baby's cheeks in vain, powerless to keep him from slipping away. He lets them fall along with his tears, presses their foreheads together to hide how badly he's crying.

"Please...come back to me."

And though he can't see it, Emmet just knows that Baby is smiling up at him, determined to cleave his heart in two.

 _"Always,_ Cap."

*****

"Captain?" Deedee's quiet murmur licks at his back, her reflection in the porthole one of deepest concern.

"What is it?"

"It's just…It's been eight days, Cap, and I feel like you've been standing there for six of 'em. At least eat something. We can split a can of soup if—"

"I'm not hungry," Emmet says to the (mostly) shatterproof glass. He watches her hand rise up and settle on his shoulder, tired fingers kneading as best they can.

"Then how about a couple hours sleep? Tom and I can keep watch in case—"

"Look, Cap," Tom says, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news—"

"Then _don't,"_ Deedee snaps at him.

"—but he ain't coming back. You need to give it up and focus on what you've got here now."

"Tom, will you shut the hell up!"

"It's my fault."

Deedee's hand slips back to her side. "No, you can't say that, Captain. You couldn't have known."

Emmet traces the crackled glass as though reading the lines on a road map: Westward to the temple, east to the library, then far north, where the bomb craters lie just out of sight. He taps a spot above the horizon and tries to picture something there that is not, imagines the sound traveling through the barrier across the rocky terrain—a beacon, an S.O.S., an apology. "Tom is right. He's not coming back, Deedee. I did this. I killed Baby."

"Captain, this isn't your fault. Baby wanted to go."

"I should have made him take the gun. Or the shovel, or even the lighter. Anything more useful than some stupid fucking statue." His fingers curl in anger, and if his nails could pierce his gloves, Emmet would have scratched at the glass until one of them fractured beyond repair.

When he checks his reflection again, he sees the crack stretching from one end of his chest to the other, and realizes he's already lost.

"Cap?" Deedee's voice echoes in the distance. "Do you want me to go out and search for him?"

"No," Emmet says, pretending to wipe the tears from his jaw as he dips his fingers into his suit collar and strokes the Soviet Socker figure. "I don't want to lose any more of you."

"Alright...but I'm making you some soup."

"Hey! I want some too!"

Call it weariness or hunger, longing or just a touch of lunacy, Emmet swears that past their bickering, he can hear something that doesn't quite fit, like a whisper in his ear. Or the subtle hiss of the airlock door activating.

Heart beating out of his broken chest, he turns and races towards it.

**Author's Note:**

> Supplemental art at [ladydorian-can-art.tumblr.com](http://ladydorian-can-art.tumblr.com/post/180454573889/youre-the-only-one-who-makes-me-feel-alive-wow)
> 
> Come chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)


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